


The Tragical History of Chairman Priebus

by RonnaWren (Wolf_of_Lilacs)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Faustian Bargain, Gen, Obligatory Hamilton reference, Screwed Up Worldview
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6776845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/RonnaWren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If parties were people, then they might have souls. If they have souls, then someone will probably try to sell them. Hey. At least he gets a page in history books, right?</p><p>The "soft Faustian" fic no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tragical History of Chairman Priebus

Reince Priebus had changed the Republican Party for the better. Because of his maneuvering, they had broken fundraising records for the first quarter of 2016. Because of his planning, the Party had made successful efforts to broaden its base of support. Because of him, they would win the White House in 2016, as they had won both houses of Congress in 2014. The annals of GOP history would laud his accomplishments for generations. They would never forget him. And Donald Trump? Trump was appealing more broadly than any candidate that had come before him. Trump would ensure Priebus's legacy.

Victory is worth any price, he vowed.

"Your people are shutting me out, Reince." Donald Trump faced him across Priebus's notably plain desk in his sparsely decorated office in the RNC headquarters. It was the middle of April, and months yet remained before the end of the chaos the nomination process had become. "Ted snatched all those Colorado delegates right from under my nose! It's rigged for your crooked establishment people, and I want in. Change the rules for me, Reince."

"Ted Cruz is far from establishment." Priebus tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose for at least the tenth time during this conversation alone. "But as I have said before, the system for allocating delegates is not rigged. The rules are clear, had you bothered to learn them."

Trump snorted. "Whatever. Why not just have it so the one who gets the most votes wins?"

Trump's voice echoed strangely in his head. "It's about the Party, Mr. Trump. You will be the Party's nominee, or no one's." Let this conversation end...

"If I'm not the nominee, Reince, there could be rioting, as I keep saying. And I don't think you want that. Your precious Lincoln's and Reagan's Party wouldn't survive it, I swear to God." The corners of his pinched mouth lifted, in what Priebus suspected was meant to be a triumphant smirk, but looked more like Trump had been kicked in the balls. Priebus held back a guffaw. Pleasant image, that. He glanced down at Trump's hands to distract himself. Stubby spray-tanned fingers gripped his water glass tightly, as though he feared to drop it. There was no elegance there, no dignified mystique that Priebus's still somewhat romantic view of a candidate said Trump should have, what the previous presidential nominee under his watch had (more or less). And of course Trump's hands only led to images of his small—or not—genitalia, which was much less satisfying to contemplate.

"The GOP has lasted for nearly two hundred years," Priebus replied. "I expect it will last a bit longer." In some form. In splinters, perhaps. And if it did, who would be blamed? "My stance will not change, Mr. Trump," he concluded, rising. "The candidate who has a majority of delegates wins. Those are the rules. If it is you, so be it. If it is not, you had a good run."

"It's only good if I win. You want me to win, Reince?"

"I will support the nominee, as chosen by the delegates. I do not care who wins. Good day." He gestured Trump emphatically from his office. Trump slunk out, seemingly cowed. But then he looked back.

"Just you wait, Priebus. I will be the nominee, even if I have to oust you to do it."

"Empty threats won't help you," Priebus responded.

***

_Priebus looked on as ex-candidates and delegates alike applauded the nominee, who walked purposefully to the lectern to make his long-awaited acceptance speech. To his chagrin, Priebus could not get a proper look at the nominee's face, except that he was neither Trump nor Marco Rubio. Who is it, Goddammit?_

_"I stand before you today, humbled at the trust you have placed in me. I promise that I shall carry this party to victory against the Democrats, and will usher in a conservative golden age. The GOP is truly grand, and it shall continue to be so under my watch." Seriously, who the hell is this guy?_

_As the mysterious speaker continued, Priebus observed many of the delegates smiling at each other as if a crisis of apocalyptic proportions had been averted. "He's the best nominee we could have picked. Everyone's happy!" Paul Ryan gushed. "Best of all, it isn't me!"_

_"Paul, please, you have to tell me. Who is giving this speech?" Priebus implored._

_Paul looked at him strangely. "The guy we agreed on. Are you feeling okay?"_

_Priebus glanced again at the speaker. It was not John Kasich. It was not Mitt Romney. It most certainly was not Ted Cruz. The man was dark-haired and bushy-browed, and was far younger than the lion's share of the candidates. It was—_

"Oh my God!" He woke with a start, his heart pounding. The man standing at the lectern had been he. No worse outcome could there be, but at the end of the day, unity—victory—mattered most.

***

Priebus walked slowly down the National Mall. The weather was unseasonably warm for late April. He slung his suit jacket over his arm; his clothes clung uncomfortably.

"Hey, Reince."

"Hi, Paul." They continued walking together. "It seems whatever I do, someone takes issue with it," Priebus sighed. "If I stay neutral, Never Trump people get pissed. If I appear to lean toward a tame moderate that appeals to many, Trump people call me out for putting forward an establishment agenda and rigging the system against them. I don't know ..."

"New experience being in the crosshairs like this, isn't it?" Ryan asked, giving a wry smile.

"With potential historical precedent? Absolutely. I dreamed of this, and yet I wish I hadn't. If I make the wrong choice here, no one will remember me fondly." Priebus shook his head ruefully.

"Look, I know you want to keep the Party together. I mean, that's your top priority. But with Trump as the nominee? He's a horrible guy."

"He's drawing more voters to us than all my planning has, Paul! We can't pass that up!"

Ryan frowned. "But at what cost? We'll go down in history as the Party that gave up its true conservative principles so it could pander to the narrow-minded idiots that support Trump. I know being an unbiased operator is important to you but ..."

"I lose more than I gain if I take a stand," Priebus snapped. "I will do nothing to stop Trump. He brings in votes."

"Yeah. A bunch of uneducated white men, whose wives would rather see him burn. So, so many votes. These people don't give a damn about balanced budgets and self-government and high-minded morals! All they want is for the government to give them whatever the hell they want! They may as well be Democrats." Ryan's voice had risen also. Passersby glanced at them anxiously.

"Shh," Priebus hissed. "Public disunity like this could be detrimental."

"I've been in this game a little longer than you. I know what I'm doing," Ryan retorted condescendingly.

"So says the man that didn't want to be Speaker, is now Speaker, and has achieved ... What have you achieved?"

Ryan glared. "Do whatever you want, Reince. Support Trump if it seems best. As for me, I'd rather be remembered for the good I tried to do." He grasped Priebus's hand briefly. His grip was tight, almost desperate. Do the right thing, Reince, Ryan mouthed, his striking blue eyes boring into him. As he released Ryan's hand, Priebus caught the eye of a reporter standing not thirty feet from them. The reporter waved nonchalantly. 

"Potential Split or Friendly Tiff? Speaker Paul Ryan (R-Wis) and RNC Chair Reince Priebus were seen having a heated argument today. This reporter wonders if it bodes ill for the Party's future. ‘We've been friends for decades! Of course we have disagreements,’ Priebus said in a statement. But is this simply equivocation?"

Priebus threw down his phone in disgust. Didn't these damn journalists have better things to report on? Issues that affected people on a global scale, for instance. One suspected argument—honestly it hadn't been much of an argument—between Paul and himself was not remotely news worthy.

He sighed and poured a second glass of wine and sat at his keyboard. Nothing equaled the relaxation his admittedly amateurish improvising gave. Sometimes he wished he had pursued music instead of politics, but he had never felt like he was all that great a musician. Maybe when this election's madness ended, he'd devote more time to it.

The significance of his conversation with Paul pressed upon him more as he played. Was Paul right about Trump's limited appeal to voters? Trump brought in Democrats and independents. Surely that meant something.

A finger slipped, and the resulting chord jarred him out of his musings. Nearly midnight again, he noted. This race had ruined sleeping.

He had promised the committee upon the commencement of his first term that the GOP would not only win, but continue to be the party of American values. All the candidates represented those values, Trump especially. National unity, America's hegemony, and others that momentarily escaped him (fucking wine). Trump is the nominee, he decided, and went back to playing.

***

Trump Tower: the single most gaudy and intimidating building ever built, which adeptly reflected its commissioner. Entering through the imposing, thick glass doors, Priebus rode the ostentatiously upholstered elevator to the office from which Trump ran his corner of the universe. The security guards that stood by the doors when he exited were expressionless; they watched him with no expectation whatsoever. He was escorted down the hall by a female receptionist, who deigned to frown at him. He grimaced in response. She led him into Trump's office, which was as opulent as he had imagined.

"Reince!" Trump greeted him as he was ushered in. "It's fantastic to see you. Really fantastic. I knew you'd come around eventually."

Paul Manafort, also present, greeted him cordially. "Hello, Mr. Chairman."

"I'm here first and foremost to reiterate my personal neutrality," Priebus began.

"Ha. I don't believe that. I don't believe— Seriously, why are you here?"

"Fine," Priebus said, resigned to his fate. "I will speak for you at the convention if you have only a plurality of delegates. It might give you the boost you need for a majority."

Trump jumped to his feet, gesturing broadly. "That is the best fucking idea I've heard this entire campaign. I knew some of you establishment were great people, just great people." He shook Priebus's hand; it felt like having his hand crushed by a fleshy hydraulic press. (Oh God ... And Hydraulic Press videos were apt for this moment ''')

Manafort was more reserved in his triumph. "Thank you, Chairman. I'm glad we could come to an agreement."

"As am I," Priebus said, almost gagging on the words. "As am I."

The receptionist who had shown such displeasure led him out. "You gave in, didn't you?" she asked.

"Um ..."

"I thought you would. You know, I'm only working here because it pays relatively well. But he is a terrible man and you should be doing everything you can to stop him."

"I can't," he said.

"Pth, that never stopped anyone before," she responded, looking at him as if he had offended her by his spinelessness. "I hope you're happy with the results."

***

Ted Cruz was an embarrassment. His gaffs in Indiana, his choosing of Carly Fiorina as a running mate so prematurely, bespoke a desperation that could only lead to future division. He needed to go.

"Ted," Priebus wrote, "Polls are looking terrible for you in Indiana. After the results come in, I would advise you to withdraw. The Party can't afford to go on like this."

Ted obliged. Prominent Party members promptly jumped ship and endorsed Clinton.

He Tweeted in annoyance. "It's time to unite behind the presumptive nominee. #neverClinton."

"John, please follow Ted's lead. Drop out," he wrote.

"It's time anyway," Kasich immediately replied. And out he went.

Unfortunately, others in the Party hated Trump far more than defeat. Traitors...

The day of the voting saw some of the worst storms Ohio had experienced in recent years. As the delegates and candidates filed in, they wore a variety of expressions. Some were resigned. Others were downright livid. Still others appeared exultant. 

Trump had more than met his end of the deal. Even so, he risked losing several unbound delegates—as well as several more who were bound but had threatened not to vote—who could deny him the nomination outright. Priebus's moment had come, it seemed. 

As the delegates and candidates milled about the hall, he made his way to the lectern. As he approached it, people's heads turned, and the hall quieted. "I have only one thing to say to you unbound delegates," he said, feeling uncomfortable under all their stares. "Support the front runner on the first ballot. This is what the people want. This is what we should give them."

Few people protested. Good; they wouldn't bolt when Trump clinched it. Paul caught his eye and shook his head. Unmoved, he left the stage; the voting began.

"Thirty-six for Mr. Trump, one for Mr. Rubio, and thirteen for Mr. Cruz," the spokesman for Alabama announced.

"Twelve for Mr. Cruz, five for Mr. Rubio, and eleven for Mr. Trump," Alaska said. On went the voting. When Trump reached 1200 with Texas, those that had expressed discontent when he addressed them began to make themselves heard.

"This is an outrage! The Party is better than this!" the obsolete Mitt Romney shouted.

"Say hello to President Clinton!" someone else added.

Oh God ... How could he have been so stupid? How had he missed this? More people had voted against Trump than had voted for him. Trump had no sense of decency. Trump didn't bring in voters; he repulsed them! What had he been thinking?

Trump stood, giddily swaying as the last states were counted. "I'm winning! I've won! I told you I would! I will be so damn presidential, Hillary Clinton won't know what hit her!"

It was like gazing into a funhouse mirror. Trump represented the worst of the Party's ideals, and he, the chairman, had blithely encouraged him. "Wait!" he choked, desperately attempting to draw the attention of the last four states to vote. "Vote for Cruz, vote for Cruz." He didn't care that most of them were bound to vote for Trump on this ballot. Propriety hadn't been a theme of this campaign; propriety wouldn't bring it down.

"What?" the Wyoming spokesman said. "You just said to vote for the front runner. Too late to change your mind now." And so the vote concluded, and Donald Trump had won the nomination.

"This Party does not speak for me," Paul Ryan proclaimed. ("My dog speaks more eloquently," grumbled a stalwart Trump supporter.) "I will not stay here to vote on a platform that proposes to make us a laughingstock. I will not stay here to tacitly support a man who by all accounts will start World War III and lose us all our allies in the process. Who's with me?" Many, many delegates stood and applauded, flocking to the doors as they did so.

Priebus watched as the GOP of his dreams dwindled into a homogeneous cluster of fools. He sank into a chair, dropping his head into his hands, hoping that this nightmare would end. Hell, it was far worse than the one he'd had in April.

"Reince," someone said from behind him. He turned wearily.

"You're still here?" he said in surprise.

"Oh, I'm leaving," Paul Ryan assured him. "Gotta abandon this sinking ship before I drown too."

"I thought Trump would be best, Paul. I really did," he said.

"I tried to tell you," Ryan replied. "But you were so hung up on your unity shit that nothing I said got through."

"I'm sorry for all of this."

"I'll bet, Reince. See you when I see you." And Ryan walked away, without looking back.

The reporter that had observed the last heated discussion between Paul and he was standing not thirty feet away.

"You have got to be kidding."

"Nope. No hand-holding this time, I see," the reporter noted.

"Afraid I burned that bridge months ago," he quipped. "We've been friends for twenty years, and now he's left me in this mess."

"Which you passively permitted."

"Passively?" Priebus laughed bitterly. "Oh no, I helped make it in every way I could. Trump would not have won if I hadn't nudged Cruz and Kasich out. He owes me. And I want nothing from him."

Momentarily surprised at his frankness, the reporter's expression morphed into one of pity. "So, what's next for you?" they asked.

Just before Trump's acceptance speech, Priebus managed to get five minutes in front of the remainder of the delegates. "I am hereby resigning as Republican National Committee chair. I am honored to have served you. Please forgive me for everything that has happened."

"Oh, sit down, Reince," Trump called. "You're hopeless. I mean, look at this guy!" His audience transfixedly did so. "He helped me get here, now he's resigning? Get out. I would be here without you."

In his hotel room that evening, Priebus wished for his keyboard. He felt utterly bereft without it. Trump's victory could have been prevented if he'd tried to discourage people before the primaries themselves had begun. Without millions of votes behind him, Trump would have fallen.

Instead, all he had seen was an opportunity that wasn't there, an opportunity to draw in voters that never would have voted, that would have gone Democrat if they had.

It left him with nothing but fruitless ambition. And a bottle of wine that changed nothing. Not his prospects. Not the last year.

"Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd In one self place; for where we are is hell, And where hell is, must we ever be,”* someone once wrote. Instead of twenty-four years, he had six. What had it been for?

So much for his legacy. There was only one thing left to do.

Election Day. A voting booth. Several choices, some unexpected. But only one name mattered in this moment, and it was not the Republican candidate. **Hillary Clinton.** The choice of nightmares in one universe, but not this one.

* Christopher Marlowe, _The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus_

**Author's Note:**

> I probably took this too seriously.
> 
> Edit June 2: In light of Paul Ryan's endorsement, I regret I gave him so much credit.


End file.
